


Gunshot

by Raicho Kurubi (SphinxTheRiddle)



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Mild Language, One Shot, Reader-Insert, in which benny loses and the courier is a little sad about it, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7651294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SphinxTheRiddle/pseuds/Raicho%20Kurubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love was a bloody snare the day the Devil stared you down from the other side of a gun.</p>
<p>Benny x Reader</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gunshot

**Author's Note:**

> tfw This snippet is two years old now.  
>   
> Just migrating some things from old sites I used to my AO3 account. Hope you enjoy, however~.

_“Felled in the night,_  
_by the ones you think you love;_  
_They will come for you.”_  
–Bastille, **Daniel in the Den**

_“Thanks for getting me outta that cage! Now for once will you just lay down and stay down?”_

The curl of betrayal snakes its way around your neck, cinching in a vice, constricting your throat and branding you black and blue as well as any noose. You wish you could be surprised, you wish the inner ice—the killer, the part of you capable of cold blooded murder, of massacring even the so-called Son of Mars—hadn’t already prepared for this outcome. You wish, wistfully, that just once, Benny could be someone other than Benny.

Ah, but would you love him so if he were anyone other than himself? Unlikely, as strange and morbid as such an admission might be. You were sure there was a psychological condition named after you somewhere; some sort of amnesia induced dementia which made heroes out of lowly couriers, and inspired them to strange affections for their own attempted murderers. Hadn’t he called you a sick pussycat the night you’d cornered him in a booth at The Tops, your hands plucking at the buttons to his suit and your lips scorching a trail down the side of neck?

_“Girls like bad boys, baby, and you’ve been downright awful~,” you had purred, smothering the first of his many half-reluctant moans with a biting kiss._

_“This ain’t revenge, doll,” he’d rumbled back, “this is…wrong.”_

_“So stop me.”_

_But he hadn’t. No, he had chuckled, building to full out laughter, taken aback by such reckless abandon, the Tribal in him utterly predatory in the thrill. With a roguish smirk, he had sunk his fingers into the yielding flesh of your thighs, whispering the fraying thread of your intertwined fates with a lurid flick of his tongue. “Thirteenth floor, honey baby. Lemme see what you’re made of.”_

The memory makes you sigh, an almost dejected sound. You suppose this is the moment of truth, the antithesis of your demise, where the scorpion sheds its skin and unfurls the flaming wings of a phoenix, no longer afraid to die. For death, as you’ve come to learn, is hardly the end.

“I’m guessing this was your plan all along,” you say, tone conversational. “I must admit, I was hoping you would prove a little less predictable.”

“Ain’t everyone as wild as you, pussycat,” he replies in much the same tone. “What can I say? The Ben-man doesn’t back down from what he wants, not even for a broad as wicked as you.”

The smirk he levels on you is enough to rouse one of your own, matching the devilish shade to his expression. You can’t help but feel a niggling of regret as he stares you down; you’re two of a kind, like twin sides of a loaded chip. For all his quips about your craziness, both of you know that he’s no better, that he wanted all of what you had so willingly offered that night at The Tops—perhaps, if he was inclined to being honest, even more than that.

He digs you, you dig him. There’s no getting around it, really. As far he’s concerned, it’s a real shame a kid like you managed to get caught up in the middle of this bloodied merry-go-round. For your part, it’s disappointing to know the futility of trying to teach an old dog new tricks. Because somewhere in the midst of platinum-plated arrogance and red-dusted tenacity, there is a genuine accord, a smidge of respect, the sort of kinship only borne by those who feel no shame in their underbelly origins.

After all, his is a lineage of scavengers, of nomadic peoples come together in the great diaspora of the post-war west, tribalized and proud. Your blood is little better, from what you can infer with fragments of memory. Tribes as far as Utah are not unknown to your hazy memories, their languages rolling from your mouth as if they are your mother tongue. Muscles retain their stealth training, and survival skills like knowing which plants are edible and which can be mixed just so to fell a man, all point to dishonorable past dealings and a history marked with death. Benny is as much your familiar as you are his.

Perhaps this, as much as anything else, explains the mutual, uncharacteristic hesitation to have an end to things.

Under the sweltering glare of a midday sun, you regard the man audacious enough to kill you a second time. Time seems to drag, casting strange shadows on the dunes. Days of sweat and dirt have drawn hard lines in his face, his time in captivity amongst the Legion exposing a weariness rarely glimpsed. The pristine white and black of his trademark checkered suit has faded from the dust of the rode, little more than washed out reds and dingy grays. Yet his eyes are still steely, his brows raised in flagrant defiance. They spark with mischief bordering on menace.

He sizes you up just as openly, notes the charcoal half-moons smudged beneath your tired eyes. Still dressing the part of the mercenary, your leathers are scuffed and cracking in the dry desert heat, your desperado hat cocked lazily to the left, affecting a devil-may-care persona. He doesn’t need to see your irises to know they’ve brightened with adrenaline, the wry twist of your lips all the evidence he needs. It is enough to make his heart pump furiously in tandem; a dangerously sentimental problem.

And you are perfectly aware of the fact.

“Benny, baby, didn’t I set you free?” you remark, an undercurrent of suggestion in your voice. “And now you’re all set to quadruple cross me. Hardly sporting.”

“You know it’s just business, pussycat,” he replies, opting to play along. “You’s can’t blame me if the rules haven’t clicked yet. You oughta know better by now.”

“Maybe I do know better. Maybe I just don’t care.”

“That ain’t my problem, toots. You’re a real ring-a-ding gal, I ain’t saying you’re not, but don’t expect me to spare you.”

You pretend his nonchalance doesn’t sting. “Why kill me, hmm? I’m hardly a threat—”

A sharp bark of laughter cuts you off, feral eyes burning right through you with unexpected intensity. “Not a threat? Are you being serious right now? Baby, you are the biggest goddamned threat in this whole fucking desert. This whole shebang ain’t nothing but a crazy line about a psychopathic, gun-slinging dame who delivers the mail!”

Quite suddenly, there is a change in his expression; his brow furrows like gathering storm clouds, his eyes glitter like hard chips of diamond, and his lips thin to a grim line. When he opens his mouth to speak, you can’t help but take the flash of pointed canines as an omen. “You’ve been settin’ up shop around the Strip since you got there. Everyone wonders when you’ll take over, but no one rules Vegas ‘cept me, got it? You’re the only thing standing in my way, kid, and I ain’t about to lose now.”

Benny whips out his best gun, his girl _Maria_ , in the space of a few heartbeats. This isn’t his first one-to-one shootout, and he’s good, lightning quick. But for all his grit and tribal heritage, he’s spent too long on the Strip, wasted too many years in the fast life of easy caps and easy women, dizzied by the whirl of neon colored lights. The redbone dust of the Mojave has not settled into his pores, leaving clothes, skin, even eyes swathed in a rusty film. He can never fully comprehend full moon loneliness shimmering on the dunes, or the chasm of desperate madness that can consume a lone person traversing the tumbleweed wastes.

So, he is good. But, you are better.

With a flick of the wrist, the muzzle of your gun presses against his chest—( _So close,_ you realize. _I hadn’t noticed._ )—and your finger twitches against the trigger. There is a spilt second of hesitation on his part; he makes the mistake of looking you in the eyes, of showing even a hint of his regret. There is no such hesitation on your end, though, and the trigger squeezes back, the shot ringing like a cry of grief in your ears.

The first shot hits him in the chest. His eyes blow wide with surprise and he can only look down, watching scarlet bloom like rose petals through his clothing. “Damn,” he rasps, one word to punctuate the moment, like time stilled in glass. His legs buckle, falling to his knees before you, blood spider-webbing in the sand. Even in the face of his impending death, the irony of the situation is not lost on him.

“From where you’re kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck.”

Having his own words thrown back in his face. He probably deserves that.

You loom over him, your shadows congealing into one congruous line, as if to mark the spot for years to come. Without the glare of the sun, he can look up into your face, stare you in the eyes. Always felt you had unnerving eyes, like you aren’t afraid to look death in the face. He supposes that’s one of the things he’s always respected about you. And that respect mingles with a strange affection as he realizes how broken up you are about the whole deal. He can’t pretend to understand—doesn’t really want to, if he’s honest with himself—and really, the whys and wherefores have never mattered.

_You really are the craziest dame I’ve ever met, honey. Guess that makes two of us._

“Not at all, kid.” He smirks up at you, reckless in the delirium of his defeat and his twisted pride for you. He keeps on grinning as the kiss of cold metal to the temple sends shivers down his spine.

“Truth is…the game was rigged from the start.”


	2. Ricochet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also Known As: tfw Love's Got You Down (literally).  
> Alt. Ending to First Chapter~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did an alternate ending for _Gunshot_ later for a dear friend of mine. (If it's a happy ending, she's to blame every time lol)  
>   
>  This AU is actually pretty OOC for the Courier I used for this reader (and possibly OOC for Benny), but at least it's a happy ending. ~~I do those sometimes.~~  
>   
>  Anyhow, I hope y'all enjoy more Benny~

_“When you play it hard and I try to follow you there;_  
_It’s not about control but I turn back when I see where you go.”_  
-Bastille, **Oblivion**

Under the sweltering glare of a midday sun, you regard the man audacious enough to kill you a second time. Time seems to drag, casting strange shadows on the dunes. Days of sweat and dirt have drawn hard lines in his face, his time in captivity amongst the Legion exposing a weariness rarely glimpsed. The pristine white and black of his trademark checkered suit has faded from the dust of the rode, little more than washed out reds and dingy grays. Yet his eyes are still steely, his brows raised in flagrant defiance. They spark with mischief bordering on menace.

He sizes you up just as openly, notes the charcoal half-moons smudged beneath your tired eyes. Still dressing the part of the mercenary, your leathers are scuffed and cracking in the dry desert heat, your desperado hat cocked lazily to the left, affecting a devil-may-care persona. He doesn’t need to see your irises to know they’ve brightened with adrenaline, the wry twist of your lips all the evidence he needs. It is enough to make his heart pump furiously in tandem; a dangerously sentimental problem.

And you are perfectly aware of the fact.

“Benny, baby, didn’t I set you free?” you remark, an undercurrent of suggestion in your voice. “And now you’re all set to quadruple cross me. Hardly sporting.”

“You know it’s just business, pussycat,” he replies, opting to play along. “You’s can’t blame me if the rules haven’t clicked yet. You oughta know better by now.”

By the mild expression on his face, you can tell he expects you to play coy. He’s all geared up with a retort to whatever deflections you might happen to give; and it should be disturbing to realize how well this man knows you, because playing the game is one of the things you do best—it’s a natural default. But something stops you from uttering the first words you can think of, which are not coy in the least: _Maybe I do know better. Maybe I just don’t care._

Such sentiment is too close to the chest for a showdown and has no place here.

“Business…” you muse, eying him from beneath your desperado hat. “An interesting stance to take, I must say. Tell me somethin’, Benny: do you consider yourself a good a businessman?”

His smile is all cockiness and charm, even as his eyes glint in suspicion. “C’mon, you even have to ask? I’m more than good, baby; I’m the best damn business man to come outta this desert.”

You’re grateful for whatever past training it is that makes it so easy to contain your amusement, because all you can think of is House and how close the ancient fool had come to undoing your plucky Chairman entirely. Oh, Benny is good, one of the best even, but House was _the_ best.

And he is dead now, by your hand. By the laws of conquest, that officially makes you the best damn businesswoman to come outta this desert. Not that you’re going to tell him that, of course. There’s a time and a place for boasting and humiliation.

~~And that would be the bedroom.~~

Ahem. Right. Priorities.

The smile you level on him is one of savage challenge, something you know he won’t be able to ignore. “If you’re so good, then surely you’re not about to kill me? You’re not an idiot, after all.”

Just as you expect, that gets a rise out of him, and he knows you are fucking with his ego on purpose, but damned if half of him doesn’t want to push this further. The flash of his canines says you’d best start talkin’ as much as the tic of his hand indicates what will happen if you don’t. Ridiculously, that gets your blood thrumming in both murderous and not-so murderous ways, and if you didn’t consider yourself insane before, you sure as hell do now.

“Work with me.” The words are straightforward enough, even if your tone has turned a tad husky. “You know as well as I do that holding the Families in check without House will be harder than either of us wants to admit. He was a prewar genius in a supercomputer; you’re just another “rehabilitated tribal” and I’m the “unkillable headcase”. No one will take a lone rule from either one of us seriously. But together, well, certainly business would thrive.”

He isn’t buying it, not for a second, and you suppose that’s about as frustrating as it is reassuring. He’s spent years working towards this moment, this single leap to awesome power, and like hell he wants to share it with anyone, even if it’s you.

“So we just pretend nothing ever happened and play nice, yeah? Not a chance.”

“Pretend? Oh, no. I could hardly forget all those _wonderful_ memories with you—”

“Shut up.” He’s had enough and not for the first time, you witness what lurks beneath that veneer of prewar smoothness. The magnetism of command is in his eyes, and he stares across the imaginary line in the sand to match your gaze. “You think you’re slick, but I ain’t as stupid as you seem to believe. You’ve been settin’ up shop around the Strip since you got there. Everyone wonders when you’ll take over, but no one rules Vegas ‘cept me, got it? You’re the only thing standing in my way, kid, and I ain’t about to lose now. No dice.”

He’s going to reach for his gun. You can sense it before he even seems to be aware of his own impulse, and the only thing you can think to do is throw yourself at him. Not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, to be sure, but it has the desired effect all the same. The two of you crash to the ground, red dust rising in a cloud around you both as you each grapple for a footing. Maria gets thrown off to Christ knows where as soon as you can snag it, and Benny reaches for the pistol at your side with a raging snarl. Sad thing is, you don’t have a single bullet left in the thing after fighting your way out of Caesar’s camp. The moment he realizes that fact is the moment your combat knife comes unsheathed, biting into his neck enough to draw a faint line of blood.

He freezes at the contact, his eyes sliding along the knife, up your arm, and into your own. You tremble in the moment, knowing to hesitate is to give him the opening, knowing there is a rage inside of you thirsting for his demise, and knowing that for some insane, inconceivable reason, you _really, really don’t want to kill him._ And he must see it in your eyes, there’s no way he doesn’t while being this close to you.

“I…” You swallow, watching tiny droplets of blood trail down his skin. “I don’t… I don’t want this. I don’t want to kill you. And I don’t want the goddamned Strip.”

Frankly, even you are surprised by the admission, but you suppose it’s the truth. Thoughtlessly, you ease back, glance once at the knife, and then toss it to the wayside. Weaponless, the only way either of you can kill the other is with your bare hands, and even Benny seems hesitant to take it to that point. Your hand comes up to trace the shallow line along his neck, your touch causing an immediate reaction as he grips your wrist in vice, sitting up to stare you down. You feel naked under that stare, feel something prick in your memory banks as if to say this has happened before, somewhere else with someone else. You felt it that night at the Tops, too and you have to wonder if part of the reason you’re so enamored with the man is because he reminds you someone from before, someone important to you.

“What—”

Whatever questions he has are cut off as you hurriedly rush on. “Honestly, I’m not cut out for politics,” you confess. “I’d rather be out in the Wastes; I think that’s partly why I became a courier. I want the power, but I want it to come with my freedom. And I want you; and yes, I know that’s crazy, but if I’m crazy, it’s because you shot me in the fucking head so to hell with your opinion.

“I can fight, I can lead. But I can’t manage, I can’t schmooze, and I don’t want to. And if you would just work with me for once— _just once_ —then you could do all of that. You could have your cake and eat it, too. All I’d ask is an equal partnership in that power.”

Benny digests your words slowly, his expression perfectly blank. You struggle to keep your eyes locked on his, despising the vulnerability you feel, and finding yourself utterly stupid for having a conversation like this while sitting in his lap. Really, could you do nothing in an appropriate, orderly fashion? Anything at all?

“…Guess it’d be smarter to keep you around, anyway.” He smirks with something like pride. “You did slaughter Baldie and his goons back at the camp. Word’ll get around eventually, and nobody needs the NCR breathing down their necks about ruining their next poster child, yeah?”

He shouldn’t be surprised when that earns him a punch to the shoulder, but he does see the kiss coming, and although getting grit and sand in his ass would be the worst, he seriously considers gettin’ it in right then and there. Because that would nice, really, and he deserves a vacation. Swank can survive holding down the fort for another day, no doubt about that, and he nearly says as much when you suddenly pull back.

“You know,” you chirp, “Caesar had a very comfortable bed.”

“Wait, what?”

“And everyone in the camp is dead, so we’d be perfectly alone.”

“Whoa now, pussycat, that’s just all kinds of wrong—”

“Because making your amnesiac murder victim your lover is just the picture of normality.”

And there’s nothing he can say to that, so he supposes the only answer to insanity is more insanity.

“Point made.”

“Good~.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be part of a submission for the GotVG Valentine’s Day contest, but I never finished all of my entries, so now they’ll just be posted separately.  
>   
> Two inspirations for this story: [some unused dialogue lines](http://tcrf.net/Fallout:_New_Vegas/Unused_Dialog#Benny) and the song _Daniel in the Den_ by Bastille


End file.
